Monsoon Season
by Lidell
Summary: An older, incrementally wiser Fanny Wendover makes her London début. Left to her own devices she would enjoy a quiet season but new arrivals force her to examine her heart, especially concerning one Mr Grayshott. Based on Georgette Heyer's Black Sheep.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: The characters, contexts and plots of _Black Sheep_ completely belong to the peerless Georgette Heyer.

* * *

Though Miss Fanny Wendover was not a young lady given to shy or retiring moods, her natural inclination being towards a sunnier disposition that lent her an infectious air of charm and vivacity, her first London season had, by incremental degrees, rubbed upon her confidence in a way that, two months after her curtsey, a gentleman engaged to dance with her at Almack's could presume to think of her as one of the wallflower sort without being accused of doing her person a great injustice. A combination of factors had intruded upon her self-esteem, the chief of these being the wearying atmosphere of her residence, which was at her Uncle James's house situated in Grosvenor Street. Being a good deal too nice to allow herself childishly to divulge the petty annoyances that accumulated every day by dint of being required to endure her Aunt Cornelia's disapproving company, she found these little anxieties and sorrows collected in her chest: without a vent they emotionally taxed her a great deal, making her too listless to attend to the niceties of the _haut ton_ with her usual degree of contented nonchalance. She could not engage to flirt, as was fashionable, with the various young men she encountered at dinner parties and fêtes when she felt sombre and unhappy with her aunt's incessant nagging. The presence of her cousins was no balm to her frayed nerves, even though they were close to her in age: Albinia was a snobbish creature, inclined to be haughty towards her Bath-miss younger relative; and Alfred was a brusque young buck, the apple of his mother's eye, immediately forgiven even if he stumbled back inebriated in the small hours of morning and picked a fight with a footman (under the impression that the rogue was taking his fob, while the hapless man was only attempting to haul him into the entrance hallway). Aunt Selina was still in Bath and while she wrote every fortnight to inform her brother and her niece of her imminent arrival, Fanny had been led to conclude that these letters contained no promise of definite travel plans as they had not of yet been followed by the correspondent. As for her favourite aunt, her dear Aunt Abby was now mistress of Danescourt, with more pressing concerns than her niece's début; and of course allowance must be made for the fact that she was in a delicate way. With a little Calverleigh cousin soon to grace the world, Fanny's scruples could not countenance disturbing her aunt, so she resigned herself to becoming a little withdrawn without many stirrings of self-pity.

Unaccustomed to thinking the worst of people, even after the infamous Stacy Affair last year, Fanny could not know that her behaviour was at odds with what was expected of a debutante and that in reality her subdued personality significantly injured her chances of making a successful début, much less a sensational one. She did not place great importance on arriving in the capital to cut a dash; she felt she had experienced enough of the social whirl in Bath and as her extroverted conduct there had led her to almost wholly compromise her principles, she was a little frightened to throw caution to the wind in such a manner again and was entirely content to be somewhat quieter in London. A caring chaperone might have taken her aside for a small chat, to soothe her qualms and to encourage her to loosen her reservations, but she had not the benefit of such a guardian: Mrs Cornelia Wendover was very happy to have Fanny shun the spotlight. Her Albinia was regretfully horse-faced and before the advent of the season she had been strongly against taking her niece in, as the two girls standing together could only cast her daughter in a disadvantageous light. But it had all ended very well, as Albinia, the veteran of two years in high society, had introduced her cousin so dismissively and in such a high-handed manner that even the men most intrigued with her beautiful face and attractive figure had soon decided her personality was colourless and dull. Fanny, without an inkling of what the wider world thought of her, was not much troubled by her apparent failure to captivate eligible bachelors. She attributed it to the plethora of young ladies more beautiful and more accomplished than she could ever hope to be; some of them had titled fathers, and she was only the orphaned daughter of a respectable but undistinguished family; and as for her fortune—pooh! There must be a dozen ladies with dowries and inheritances many times the size of hers. One glance at such illustrious luminaries as the delightfully effervescent Viscountess Sheringham and the incomparably beautiful Lady Charlbury taught Fanny all she needed against presumption. She was quite heedless that her face possessed the unique quality of communicating a pleasantly listening temperament and that her smile was something special in its own right. Her humility and modesty might be congratulated, if anyone were perceptive enough to observe it and if anyone were prudish and silly enough to applaud an attitude quickly becoming detrimental to her odds of future felicity.

Friends from Bath could have detected the change in Fanny's spirit, but these persons were few and far between in London, and they were largely preoccupied with their own circumstances. Mrs Grayshott, though certainly aware of her young friend's melancholy, knew just as well that she would find no receptive ear in her chaperone-aunt; desiring to not make the matter worse if she could not make it better, she resolved to say nothing at all, though some evenings she regarded Miss Wendover with a troubled expression indeed. The début of her daughter confined her unease to these long glances from across a drawing room; as she was not labouring under similar misgivings as her friend Fanny's, Lavinia Grayshott had gladly thrown herself into the parties and balls of the season. Proper sensibility and affectionate attachment had not separated the two best friends, but as Fanny was not at all selfish, and reassured Lavinia that she did not mind hearing about day trips and shopping expeditions she herself had not been invited to, their rapport had not suffered. Occasionally Lavinia regretted that she was not enjoying London with Fanny as her ever-present companion—especially after all the plans they had made together last year!—but the giddy excitement of exhilarated adolescence soon submerged her pangs of conscience. She attributed her friend's reticence to the unfortunate entanglement involving Stacy Calverleigh: a loyal creature, she sincerely and fervently hoped that Fanny would speedily recover from the wound to her heart, but did not stretch her solicitude too much further than that. Thus, it was in this context that at Lady Sefton's ball, Lavinia soon took her leave of her seat by Fanny near the edge of the dancing floor to form a part of the set for a country dance with only a warm smile cast over her shoulder at her friend, who had refused a similar entreaty to gratify a potential partner. Such a look would have been thought the height of callousness if it had transpired in Bath the previous year, but they were in London now and, for better or for worse, many aspects of their lives had changed.

Such lofty reflections, however, did not feature in Fanny's thoughts as she regarded the elegantly dressed dancers with a small smile that was more complaisant than wistful. She was admiring her friend Lavinia's dress, which was creamy mull muslin shot with bronze threads, as well as many of the other gowns she saw twirling about the ballroom. Her own raiment was not shabby even in such superior company: her Aunt Abby, with a veritable flood of advice from Aunt Selina in mind, had escorted her to all the best London modistes before her departure to her husband's estate and so she could début for the occasion an exceptionally fetching evening dress of dove blue crêpe with ruffs of frothy lace, worn over a pearly white satin slip, with snowy kid gloves. She was pleased with her looks but did not refine much upon this topic beyond the bounds of her uncle's house. Therefore, the effect of her striking presence was rather lost on her; she took much more pleasure in viewing everyone else's clothes, with a rather unfortunate consequence. Enchanted with her loveliness, many gentlemen were on the verge of approaching her, but upon venturing into her vicinity perceived her resolutely non-romantic air and the abstracted gleam in her eyes and presently recalled that this Miss Wendover had a reputation for being dreary and tedious. They shortly found other partners and gave not another thought to Miss Fanny, who was thankfully oblivious to her predicament. Yet perhaps she was a little _too_ unmindful of her situation, for she had the ill luck to recognise the approach of another young lady she would have rather avoided just when it was too late to pretend to be wandering off in search of a glass of ratafia.

The Honourable Eleanor Baker Holroyd was an intimate friend of Miss Albinia Wendover's and this young lady was, unluckily for Fanny, possessed of a philanthropic and overbearing outlook that was constantly searching for misfortunes she could enlighten with her superior education and wisdom. As a result she was in the habit of seeking out 'projects' that she could very merrily leave in a worse off state than how she had found them, proclaiming at the end of her endeavours that she had done everyone a good turn indeed. When she had been introduced to Albinia's young cousin from Bath, Fanny had not sensed any danger but her opinion had swiftly altered when Miss Baker Holroyd had surveyed her from head to toe and declared, 'Well! I can see _my_ touch shall be required here!' Any gentle resistance utterly failed to penetrate Miss Baker Holroyd's impervious demeanour and, not wishing to make a scene, Fanny had simply taken to avoiding the lady. In the few instances that she had been too slow to make her escape, Eleanor's domineering and bossy monologues had been inescapable; as the night was still young, she had no wish to endure a few more hours of incessant and unwanted counsel. These encounters were always humorous after they had occurred, but as Eleanor called, 'Fanny! My dear _Fanny_!' as she advanced, the quarry could not fail to feel a sense of encroaching doom this time.

'Miss Baker Holroyd,' she said a little helplessly when the lady finally stood in front of her, 'how are you this evening?'

'Very well,' was the answer, 'but I do wonder why you have chosen _this_ hue for your gown tonight! It is too drab, my dear! As a debutante you must present a gayer aspect. Why, when I was in my first season, I was always out and about in pastels and bright colours. Jewel tones will not do, however; I know what you are thinking; only older ladies wear such tints. You have not the familiarity with society _yet_, Fanny, which I can clearly see from the fact that you are not dancing. Here, now, you must not be shy—unless you do not know many of the gentlemen here? I daresay you have no idea who is eligible and who is not to be seen with! Well, my dear, you leave it to me; I can _always_ be counted upon to secure an introduction…' Listening to this demonstration of insight with an increasingly glazed frame of mind, she was jerked back to alertness when Eleanor grabbed her elbow. 'Why, look!—' she hissed elatedly in the younger lady's ear. 'My presence has undoubtedly been enough to communicate to the most worthy suitors that you are no miss to be trifled with, my dear Fanny! Here comes Mr Grayshott, a most suitable gentleman! You do not know, I am sure, but he is said to be fabulously rich, with an uncle in India who quite dotes upon him and his family. Stand straighter, my dear; it is a pity you are not in better looks tonight!'

Torn between exasperation and amusement, Fanny had no time to dwell on the flutter of her heart that had accompanied Eleanor's warning of Oliver's nearing. The two ladies curtseyed and the gentleman bowed; Miss Baker Holroyd was about to open her mouth when he held out his hand towards Miss Wendover, with a smile that made her breath catch: 'Care to dance, Fanny?'

Blushing slightly, she gave him her hand, and let him lead her to the next set. He cast one glance behind them, at the flabbergasted Eleanor, with a wry set to his mouth that prompted a giggle from her. She was about to say something in her usual manner to Oliver, but the eyes of many young women, as well as the assessing stares of many matrons, made her faintly shy and she fairly forgot what it was she had been about to say. Instead, she admired the cut of his coat, how it set his broad shoulders and imposing height to considerable advantage, and so in the next moment stood opposite him without having said a word. His face showed nothing but kindliness and consideration but she fancied, in her self-recrimination, that he looked a little bored, and she roundly abused herself for her dumbness.

The musicians began to play and there was then no opportunity to extend her temporary spell of glumness. She loved dancing and the exercise was enough to banish her newfound sobriety; when the set ended she was flushed and exultant, and gladly took Oliver's arm when he offered to procure her refreshment. 'Thank you!' she exclaimed, sounding much like the young lady who had captivated Bath along with her fashionable and esteemed aunts. 'I did not know you would be attending the ball, Oliver, but I am glad that you have come!' To which he returned her sentiment with a fleeting but heartfelt press of his hand against hers. 'I did not think I was going to be here tonight,' he admitted. 'As you know, I have been much detained by matters of business in the City. This is a welcome respite and I am always glad to see you, Fanny.'

A debutante, standing by the side, with her eyes trained on Mr Grayshott's profile, blanched to hear the couple's mutual usage of Christian names, and declared to her equally shocked friend standing to her left, in a low voice and in strongly offended accents, that she did not know Miss Fanny Wendover was such an appalling flirt!

Ignorant of this indictment, Fanny looked up into Oliver's face and gave a small smile. 'Oh? Matters of business? Is it to do with your uncle's company?' The pause this inquiry elicited instantly made her cheeks redden. She had been so used to standing on no ceremony with him in Bath that she almost mechanically fell back into the habit, despite the so dissimilar context. Since the deplorably shameful events of last year she had been in his company often enough, and with such absence of formality, that she fancied they had an interminable understanding. But they had not met for some months after this heightened companionship, when the Grayshotts had departed for Hampshire to set about buying a country estate, and then they had been a month later still coming to London for Lavinia's début. The sister she often saw, but the brother was so often busy that she was rather taken aback by her own familiarity and offered an awkward apology.

He seemed startled and raised his eyebrows. 'Oh no, Fanny, don't! I should be the sorry one; I didn't mean to upset you. I was just deliberating because, well, it's not company business exactly but it is to do with my uncle—you should find out soon enough. He has impressed on me that he means to keep this, ah, _transaction_ hushed up for as long as possible. But I shall give you a hint: my mother may soon have the honour of presenting an addition to our society.' This enigmatic declaration was sufficiently winning as to prompt a teasing guessing game for the next few minutes. They danced once more during the night once enough sets had passed to satisfy all notions of propriety, and as Oliver introduced her to a few entertaining friends of his who had until then never seen Miss Fanny so lively and charming, she could truthfully mumble, when she tumbled into bed that night, that she had passed an exquisite evening without a doubt. She happily reflected that she could nod off composing a joyful letter to Aunt Abby, but it was kind hazel eyes, broad shoulders and a compassionate smile that she dreamed of.

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Note: Including this chapter, I'm guessing the story should be told in four or five parts. I would like to acknowledge inspiration where it is due; in this case I am in TheImaginationAddict's debt, for showing me that Heyer fanfic is possible. Also, the great author herself deserves _some_ mention, for her ability to breathe as much life into her secondary characters as her main ones, while using only a tenth of the words.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The characters, contexts and plots of _Black Sheep_ belong to Georgette Heyer.

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Mr Oliver Grayshott had not been expecting to enjoy fashionable London when he escorted his mother and sister to the capital for Lavinia's début, and so had been pleasantly surprised by the easy and comfortable acceptance into the neighbourhood of Mayfair he received upon his arrival. He was not in town to enter into the Polite World and had recognised, without dismay or rancour, the possibility that the unfashionable commercial nature of his employment at his uncle's London trading house might preclude his triumphant entrance into the life of the _haut ton_. He enjoyed business very much, as he had a head for figures and an ambitious nature, and he would not have sought to attend dinner parties and balls if it were not for his mother's delicate disposition and his sister's boundless excitement: the latter of which would wilt, when informed that Mrs Grayshott felt too unwell to go this, that or the other fête, in a manner endearing enough to extract pity from even the strictest tyrant. As Oliver was no tyrant, he joined several festivities in the capacity of a brother and a chaperon; he felt himself distant from the merrymaking of his sister's friends and acquaintances, often forgetting that he was in actuality only five years older than Lavvy, a far cry from being exempt from the ceaseless speculation of the 'Marriage Mart.' These formidable ladies had deemed him thoroughly eligible, the only regrettable aspect being that he was sadly lacking a title and a more prominent lineage, though the matrons were somewhat pacified by the fact that his uncle Leonard Balking had very recently been knighted _in absentia_ for his colonial services. That the men of the Grayshott family could rightfully claim military distinction going back a number of generations was a balm too, one raised in maternal conversations with a frequency disproportionate to the actual importance of the circumstance. If Oliver were aware of this scrutiny, he would have found it silly: his only wish was his desire for Lavvy to make a good match because it was what she wanted. For himself, he cherished and longed for nothing; though there was a matter of his heart that had weighed heavily upon him last year, his integrity and awareness of his chances had kept him from dwelling upon it, so much that even at his most romantic his feelings were scarcely more than a muffled flicker, and normally they did not intrude upon his thoughts at all.

Three days after Lady Sefton's ball, he travelled in a spacious carriage from Mount Street to Blackwall, slightly northeast of the Isle of Dogs, that hub of commerce and adventure he had disembarked at a year and a half previously. Memories of his miserable homecoming still pressed upon him from time to time, though he had mainly succeeded in banishing the more unreasonably despairing thoughts. His mother had done much to soothe his anxieties through conversation, and the reality of her less-than-perfect health distracted him from unnecessary, roundabout pensiveness. There was a niggle of guilt in Oliver's mind—for he was certain that the stress his illness had caused was the primary factor in her deterioration—but there were too many tasks, both at his job and socially, to attend to. If he was not being asked to take Lavvy to browse at the milliner's, he was being asked to review the ledgers for a Bombay to Amsterdam shipment, or he was being asked his opinion on potential silverware for the house in Hampshire. He had long been the head of the family, but with the reassurance of future security in having finally settled in both town and country, he at last felt he was growing into his rôle. He was aware that being the man of the house in more than name would soon ask of him other duties; but, for now, they could wait.

The raucous, unapologetic vibrancy of the docks brought a smile to his face. Although firmly aware of his position, he had enjoyed bantering with and hearing the stories of the many colourful sailors and tradesmen on his voyage to India (his journey home had been less convivial). Pulling the drapes back, he watched as speedy hoys swarmed indomitable frigates and packets manoeuvred around eerie hulks. Scanning the masts, he grinned to see the hoisted flag of the East Indiaman he had come to look for. Taking out his pocket watch, he hoped that he wasn't late: from what he could remember of this acquaintance, tardiness would be met with a no-nonsense scolding.

Thanking his coachman holding the reins, Oliver navigated the busy pier underneath the vast shadow of the ship just sailed in from halfway around the world. The old excitement of proximity to adventure quickened his heartbeat as he strode past burly men unloading crates and the shouts of travellers glad to see loved ones again. The bow of the vessel would be where the first class cabins were located; the closer to the captain's quarters, the more expensive the suites became. For a few minutes, he watched the well-heeled folk tottering down the gangway, before he saw out of the corner of his eye the mound of band-boxes, portmanteaux, valises, and trunks being piled into a groaning hack, and the tall, slim young lady presiding over the precarious operation.

'I feel overpowered to inform you that I have a four-panelled wooden screen in one of these chests, very exquisitely carved, I'm sure you'll understand,' he heard a pleasant, musical voice pleading as he approached. '_Careful_ with that! I will be distraught beyond words if any of my ivory elephants are broken.' To which he could not help but chuckle; and in the next moment the lady had rounded upon him, the rather fierce expression on those symmetrical features melting into one of relief within an instant.

'Oliver!' Miss Isobel Talbot exclaimed, running the short distance between them to greet him. For a moment it seemed like she was about to fling her arms around his neck, like she had been wont to do in India; but a sudden consciousness of the different national surroundings appeared to intrude in the last moment, and she simply stuck out her hand after a slight, confused pause. Gallantly taking it with a wide grin, he bowed over it in the proper drawing room style; belatedly, she curtseyed, and the mock formality of it soon had her giggling. 'I have missed you,' she confessed, twirling the parasol in her left hand. 'The other passengers I was allowed to speak to were _so_ stuffy, and shocked that I should be travelling with only my ayah and Mrs Coate! Though they should have been more shocked that I did not die from the lack of entertainment; Coatey is a dear, though quite drab; and poor Supriya was terrified that we should all drown in our beds. Never mind that, though: you have arrived on the dot to sort out what is to be done with my evidently unmanageable luggage.'

Sort it out he did; and in less than an hour he was back in the post-chaise, renewing his acquaintance with Mrs Coate, Supriya (her mistress insisted she sit in the contraption with them rather than escort the luggage), and Isobel, the girl he knew Uncle Leonard wanted him very much to marry.

* * *

Almost a week had passed since Lady Sefton's ball, and although Fanny was finding her abrupt popularity among a few previously apathetic gentlemen vaguely agreeable, she had not truly been happy except for when the flowers and notes had been delivered the morning afterwards. The modest haul from the post had yielded a few fresh daisies, tied simply with a silk ribbon, from Oliver: and the utter delight she experienced upon reading the attached card made her sit back and think for a few moments. If she had received flowers after a rout-party last year in Bath, she would have vacillated between ecstasy (any offerings of regard were, of course, delightful) and disappointment (because these offerings of regard were measured, of course, by the grand, exhaustive efforts behind their provenance). She did not think _Stacy_ would have been content to send only pure flowers and a short, humble note of thanks; but she was sufficiently matured to make the comparison so that her former beau came off looking the worse. He had been charming, eloquent, and theatrical only to ensnare her, and also because it soothed his vanity and obsession with appearances. Knowing that Oliver had signed his name and selected the flowers with sincerity was a thousand times more gratifying than the most flowery speech Stacy had _ever_ made to her.

These reflections may have deepened, but Fanny was obliged to leave off her curious thoughts when a billet was delivered to the house on the fifth day after the ball; the hastily scrawled 'Miss Wendover' was so unlike Lavinia's usual meticulously curlicued script she instantly knew that the letter had been composed in some agitation. Wondering what on earth could cause such excitement, Fanny broke the wafer, her eyebrows steadily rising as she consumed the letter's contents. To request a secret meeting! It had not been necessary to repair to their agreed location for especially confidential discussions at all during the season so far, and she was not sure whether it was a serious or light matter that had precipitated this appeal. Still, she was very curious, and contrived to arrange the get-together as soon as possible.

A clandestine cloak-and-dagger affair it was not. When it was made known that Uncle George and Aunt Mary could not take in their débutante niece on account of the widowed and sickly Mrs Brede coming to stay with them, nothing could have exceeded Aunt Mary's disappointment. Knowing very well the nagging, prosy dispositions of her brother and sister-in-law, she endeavoured to provide (after an illuminating letter from Abby) poor Fanny with an escape hatch should she need it. She offered her services as a chaperone as frequently as she could, even accepting with unruffled equanimity Albinia's accompaniment; and invited the darling to dine so regularly even Uncle James remarked upon it, saying with pained fastidiousness that his table would soon be thought of as extraordinarily niggardly. Nevertheless, he was on careful terms with George Brede (a man of superbly handsome fortune and influence) and so when the gentleman drove up with his wife in his phaeton to ask whether Fanny could come again, even James Wendover could do no more than grumble innately that his own children had never received particular attentions from such a well-respected corner. It never crossed his mind that his children were the ones Fanny principally used her visits to Aunt Mary's to bolt from: Albinia had the ugly habit of eavesdropping on all conversations that did not involve her, and Alfred thought nothing of barging into her morning calls very sloppily dressed. (He barely stirred from his room before noon, but had developed a _tendre_ for Lavinia—he could never seem to find the chit at assemblies and so had been forced to inserting himself into the parlour whenever his cousin was receiving Miss Grayshott. A poor circumstance in which to pursue his suit!) Mary had gently promised her assistance if there ever should arise a topic which her encroaching cousins must not know of; and so Fanny had a short note delivered to Brook Street. The next morning, her aunt came in her tilbury to say that she desired to take a drive with her younger niece; thus she tied on her bonnet, and they went around the corner from whence the carriage had just come.

Mary Brede, having discharged her duty, left Fanny in the drawing-room to receive her imminent guest. Saying vaguely that she would come back if Mrs Grayshott also came calling ('Have Petty fetch me, dear'), she gave an airy order for tea to be served, and withdrew to recover her spirits on the sofa in her bedroom. The servants, accustomed to their mistress's imprecise demands, asked Fanny very politely whether she required the tea service now or when her guest arrived; knowing that Lavinia and Oliver were most likely due at any minute, she asked for refreshment. Her quickened pulse must be from the excitement of sneaking out right underneath Aunt Cornelia's disapproving nose: yes, that was it! A draught of tea would be just the thing to settle her nerves.

Her prescription was quite correct; for when Lavinia, accompanied only by her abigail, was shown by a most sombre Petty into the drawing-room, Fanny was not at all restless anymore and indeed found herself feeling a little let-down.

'Lavinia, have you gone walking by yourself in London?!' Fanny exclaimed, rising to grip her dearest friend's hands. 'You must know that will set all the old gossips quizzing!'

'I was not _alone_,' she retorted, though the flush across her cheeks betrayed her own uneasiness about the business. 'Miss Brigham was with me! Besides, it don't signify! I couldn't come with Mama or Oliver, because they would not at all approve of what I am going to tell you!—and I daresay _she_ would have made herself a nuisance by coming along as well!'

As this mysterious declaration was delivered in a tone of uncharacteristic violence, Fanny begged Lavinia to sit down and have a cup of tea before going any further. She was not overly concerned with what the old Toughs might say about a short stroll, for Mount Street and Brook Street were only a few minutes apart on foot, and Miss Brigham was so genteel-looking for a maid that anyone must have assumed she was a chaperone, but she was becoming swiftly worried about the subject of this secret meeting. Knowing the Grayshotts very well and having so much faith in their good sense, she could not be comfortable discussing a topic that met with their disapproval, and prepared herself to speak very carefully. If Lavinia had fallen in love with an unsuitable _parti_, she would do her utmost to dissuade her! How grateful Oliver would be…!

Unfortunately, what Lavinia had to say threw Fanny into such a shock she did not think she was very much help at all.

'Did I ever tell you,' her friend began, her normally soft brown eyes looking strangely stormy, 'about Oliver's letters when he was in India? He wrote frequently, and about a year into his stay he reported something that quite astonished my poor mama. He said that Uncle Leonard was looking to fix him up with a young lady who was the daughter of one of his dearest friends! Of course, having very little faith in the nicety of Calcutta society (for it is all Nabobs and prospectors, you know), Mama said she would absolutely forbid it if events came to a pass. But they did not; it seemed that Uncle Leonard came to his senses.'

Intrigued with the narrative, and feeling a very curious pang upon the revelation that Oliver had not been forced to marry some girl in India, Fanny was quite belated in saying, 'Oh! Pray continue,' to secure the resumption of the tale.

'Mama was very relieved, of course, and I daresay we never gave another thought to it until the past fortnight. I never discovered the name of the girl, and I think Mama was so revolted by the idea of him marrying someone she could not meet before the ceremony that she did not take any pains to learn it either. Oliver, before we left Hampshire, hinted that he would be giving us a great surprise—Mama was overjoyed to think that Uncle Leonard would be joining us, and so happy that her son should arrange it, that we did not tease him. But who should arrive two days ago, except for that—_girl_ Uncle Leonard wished him to marry!' In throbbing accents she had never yet been provoked into using, she concluded: 'Her name is Isobel Talbot, and Uncle Leonard has asked Mama to bring her out into Society!'

'Oliver did not tell your mother about this beforehand?' Fanny gasped, disbelieving that he could be so inconsiderate.

'Uncle Leonard commanded him not to. But now we know why Oliver was insistent on engaging three ladies' maids instead of two,' Lavinia said glumly, 'and also why he asked for four family rooms to be kept ready after the season is over in Hampshire. I thought that was for you to come and visit after you are done at Danescourt, but it is for Miss Talbot.'

'Does Miss Talbot not have family in England?'

'That is the most shocking thing! She has an uncle in London, but from what I gather, her relations with that branch of the family are not good. Mama quite unbent at this point because'—a blush stole across Lavinia's cheeks—'Miss Talbot is lately an orphan and she is now my uncle's ward. Of course, I feel sorry for her,' she said, looking rather chastised, 'but I do not know why this has been such a havey-cavey affair! In a bit of a temper I told Mama that she was probably a designing female—for her letter from Uncle could have been a forgery, could it not?!—but then I was given such a scold for being so ungrateful for my uncle's kindness. I am _not_ ungrateful,' she finished roundly, having worked herself into excitement again, 'but I do not know why we should be imposed upon by a girl who has _no_ claim upon _us_ and who once almost stole my brother away!'

Fanny, feeling rather numb, managed nonetheless to soothe her friend's sensibilities. She did not know what to make of the matter herself, and when Lavinia was calmer they were able to deliberate more at length. She learned that Miss Talbot was fabulously rich, as her father had made her his sole heiress; that she was tall and elegant, though perhaps too brown in her complexion; and that she had the boldest manners. The most infuriating part of it that she was just so _interesting_! She had ever so many anecdotes about India, and had even brought an Indian maid with her, whom she treated like a bosom-bow. 'They often fall into the most unintelligible dialect, which Oliver tells me is called _Hindi_! Then he says that his own is so rusty he is sorry to have lapsed so abominably.'

As this was the first mention of Oliver in the conversation, Fanny used to opportunity to ask, completely at a loss as to why she felt such trepidation, whether they were on good terms.

'Oh, fabulous!' Lavinia cried. 'They are thick as thieves! I warned Mama that we should suffer seeing them married anyway, but she only told me not to fall into a distempered freak _yet again_. I am of the impression that Mama does not know what to make of the matter,' she said, finishing her fourth cup of tea. 'Well, I do not either, but I hazard that Miss Talbot may be setting her cap at my brother. He is a rather good catch, you know: Miss Annesley tells me many girls hope he will be escorting me to this or that riding party or rout.'

Disregarding this last sentence, Fanny said that she would very much like to meet the notorious Miss Talbot, despite everything. 'You shall, Mama is presenting her at Almack's this Wednesday. I have the most awful suspicion, Fanny,' she said grimly, tying her bonnet on again, having been persuaded by a refreshed Aunt Mary that both girls should be driven back in the tilbury. 'I have the most awful suspicion that Miss Talbot is going to become all the crack, and that I will be living with a girl who will upon every occasion cast me into the shade!'

* * *

Note: Several things! Firstly, I am so, _so_ sorry that this chapter is this disgustingly late. Any attempt at justification will probably be dismissed as an excuse, so I won't even try. (I will say though that I only had access to my Heyer books until about two months ago, and so any procrastination from that point onwards is doubly criminal.) Secondly, I made three very small changes to the previous chapter. Checking the text again and finding out that Aunt Mary lives on Brook Street, I moved Uncle James's house to Grosvenor Street; Debrett's has informed me that 'The Hon.' is never to be followed by 'Mr' or 'Miss' so I fixed Eleanor's intro; and remembering that Lavinia has brown eyes, I have made Oliver's hazel instead of grey. Thirdly, I did as much historical research as I could about the docks but still have no idea whether it's possible to be knighted _in absentia_. But Stamford Raffles in 1817 was knighted, and I'm going to say that he put in a good word for his friend Leonard while that was happening. Last but not least, comments and constructive criticism, please? I know this was a very 'set-up' chapter, but the action will start soon, I promise. Thank you for reading!


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